


Buddy System

by Captain_Panda



Series: Growing Pains [6]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And Then a Nice Soft Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Humor, Hurt Tony Stark, Let's Have a Laugh Together, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Protective Steve Rogers, Straight-Up Comedy Folks, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony is High as a Kite, Truth Serum, Vaguely crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: While visiting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s testing grounds, Tony Stark gets exposed to truth serum.As a result, he goes full "SCP containment breach" and requires immediate handling to prevent absolute chaos.Fury turns to his best asset to secure, contain, and protect the beloved gremlin: Steve Rogers.Tomfoolery, and feelings, ensue.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Growing Pains [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707091
Comments: 52
Kudos: 276





	Buddy System

**Author's Note:**

> Good evening, champs! 
> 
> It's been a spell, hasn't it? I'm actually hard at work on another big project, so I haven't forgotten about this 'verse (or my beloved OMA), but I decided to take a break from the big project and to further pause OMA to embrace this absolute joyride for an evening. I sincerely hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Takes place after the previous installments and slightly before the events of _The Winter Soldier._
> 
> Yours affectionately,  
> Cap'n Panda

**4:54 PM**

“I am a _gift_ to _mankind_.”

“Get _off_ of the _roof_ ,” Nicholas retorted.

“ _I_ am a _gift_ to _mankind_ ,” Tony repeated, kicking his feet cheerfully over the edge of the roof, looking down at Nicholas on the tarmac, visibly steaming in the Mojave heat.

“ _Stark_ ,” Director Nicholas J. Fury bellowed. “Get _down_ from there _right_ _now_ or so help me God I _will_ make you!”

Leaning forward to be heard more effectively, Tony cupped his hands around his mouth and informed loudly, “ ** _I_ am a _gift_** —” and squawked as he overbalanced and proceeded to slide feet-first off the roof.

Thankfully, he did _not_ land on asphalt or even the brushy cactus, as the universe and gravity intended, but right into the waiting arms of—“Oh,” he said, “hello.”

Sighing, Steve Rogers replied calmly, “Hello.”

“I will pay you,” Nicholas growled, “a _thousand_ dollars to keep him out of my hair for the next twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours?” Steve Rogers repeated. “Doesn’t that seem a little—no, these are mine,” he interrupted.

“I want them,” Tony informed, making a second bid for his sunglasses. “You have super eyes.”

“What?”

“You have super eyes,” Tony repeated. “Give me.”

“No,” Steve Rogers said. “These are mine. You have sunglasses. You’re wearing them right now.”

Tony thought about it. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

Steve sighed, set him on the pavement properly, and informed, “Now see, look, you _have_ —”

Tony took off at a sprint for the opposite end of the parking lot and the great wide desert beyond. Tragically, he did not acquire the sunglasses, but he _did_ acquire a good head start before— “No,” Steve Rogers huffed, slinging one arm around his waist, halting him rather abruptly. Pinning Tony firmly to his side with one arm and digging out his phone with the other, he sighed, texted something, and asked, “Do you wanna go—”

“Moon,” Tony said immediately.

“No,” Killjoy Rogers replied.

“Killjoy,” Tony said.

“Tony, we can’t go to the Moon.”

“I have a suit,” Tony said, tugging at his arm impatiently before crowding forward, wedging himself between Lunar Rogers’ arm and his face to see what was so interesting about his phone. “What’s so interesting about your phone?”

“Stop it. I’m telling Natasha that I’m bus—”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“No. She’s _our_ team—”

“ _Our_ girlfriend,” Tony agreed, nodding in approval even as Steve Rogers sighed and said, _No, Tony_. “Go team.” Going limp in a vain attempt to sink to the black pavement, Tony added, “It’s super-hot, is it just me? Let’s get ice cream, I’m _roasting_.”

“That, we can do. Please stand up straight, Tony, you’re gonna hurt your back.”

“Old man. I can _break_ my back. I’m a _master_ of karate. I know _Tae Kwon Do_.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tony whined as he tried, in utter vain, to flatten himself on the pavement. Steve Rogers pocketed his phone and hiked him bodily over a shoulder. 

Tony blinked at the elevation change, staring down his back at the pavement. Then he said, “If I throw up on you, will you put me down?”

Steve Rogers let out a very long-suffering sigh. “No, I will not.”

“What if I fake-throw up on you? I can be convincing.”

“ _Tony_.”

“I’m being KIDNAPPED,” Tony bellowed. “HELP.”

“ _Tony,_ ” Steve Rogers repeated loudly. Mulishly trooping ahead, Jackass Rogers grumbled, “I’m not putting you down.”

“This is a country of DEBAUCHERY and WAR CRIMES,” Tony howled. “The justice system is a SHAM.”

“Need any help, sir?” a passing S.H.I.E.L.D. agent asked.

“Son,” Steve Rogers growled. “Just _don’t_.”

“Understood, sir,” replied the agent, paling several shades and skittering away.

“COWARD,” Tony howled. “I am being UNLAWFULLY DETAINED—”

Mule-Ass Rogers set him down but kept one hand on his shirt, thwarting his glorious escape attempt. Tony lunged for freedom, whining when he only managed to rubber-burn his sneakers. 

“If I give you my sunglasses,” Steve Rogers grunted, “will you _cut it out?_ ”

Perfectly noncommittal, Tony parroted, “Give me your sunglasses.”

Steve Rogers removed them and held them out, scowling.

Tony took them, then chucked them as hard as he could into the prickly underbrush. “Fetch.”

Steaming, Steve Rogers replied, “Cute, Tony. Real cute.”

“I’m a _gift_ —” Tony began, whining as Steve Rogers started walking, tugging Tony after him. “To _mankind_ ,” he finished, digging in his heels, yelping in pain when Jackass Rogers kept dragging him then, too. Sighing in defeat, Tony conceded in a small voice, “Wait. _Wait_.” Steve Rogers paused, and Tony stepped closer, hopped up onto his back, and notched an arm around his neck, instructing, “Okay. _Mush_.”

Hooking a firm arm around Tony’s legs, Steve Rogers did not mush, resuming at the same boring 2.5-mile-per-hour walk. “I’m bored,” Tony said immediately, planting his chin on Killjoy Rogers’ head. “Entertain me.”

“No,” Killjoy Rogers said.

“Fine. I’ll entertain me,” Tony said, lifting his head and belting out, “I’m _siiiiiinging_ in the rain, just _siiiiiinging_ in the _raiiiiiin_ , what a glooooorious feelinnnnnnng, I’m haaaaaaappy again.”

It devolved quickly from there into hums and word-filling improvisation, but at least he wasn’t quite as bored as he trilled along to the previously undiscovered fourteen additional verses to Gene Kelly’s classic _Singing in the Rain_.

**5:17 PM**

Steve Rogers chucked him onto the hotel bed. “Again,” Tony demanded, hopping to his feet.

“No,” Killjoy Rogers grunted. “Sit. Stay.”

Approaching the window, Tony reflected, “There a balcony to jump off of? I’m _bored_.”

“Well,” Killjoy Rogers said, “too bad.” He pried Tony off the radiator and set him back on the bed firmly. “ _Sit_.”

“No,” Tony said, sinking to the floor and flattening himself there. “You can’t make me.” Struggling to coordinate his starfish limbs into a semblance of a human body capable of rolling over and getting back up, he admitted, “I’m stuck.” Fanning his limbs in a lazy swimming motion, he asked, “Is there a pool?”

Killjoy Rogers picked him up under the arms and deposited him on the bed. “Maybe,” he said.

“Well, there is, or _isn’t_ ,” Tony said, standing up and balancing both hands on the headboard before attempting to pry the painting off the wall. “Bet there’s a secret—hey—” Letting out a disgruntled noise, he clung to the headboard when Killjoy Rogers pried him away from the painting. “No, I’m looking for secrets.”

“There’s no secrets.”

“Did you look?”

“Tony.”

“ _Did_ you?”

“I don’t need to. There’s no secrets.” He set Tony down firmly on the opposite bed. “No,” he added, almost tackling him at the waist, as Tony immediately stood and tried to get at the frame. Pinning him to the mattress firmly, Killjoy Rogers said, “Tony, focus—do you _want_ ice cream? Or are you just gonna throw it?”

“. . . I might throw it,” Tony admitted, tipping his chin down and blinking up at him innocently. “Hi. You have very blue eyes.”

Sighing, Steve Rogers replied, “Hi. You’re very high.”

“No,” Tony said, curling his hands in Steve’s shirt. “I’m Tony.”

“That, too.”

Pouting, Tony tugged at his shirt and said, “I’m hot.” Shuffling back, Steve Rogers only made it partway upright before Tony tugged on his shirt, insisting, “No, wait, come back. I didn’t mean you. Hot Rogers,” he added, stifling a snicker against his shoulder. “Hey, you should do a sexy calendar shoot. For charity. That’d be sexy. Charity is sexy. I get such a hard-on when I think about sexy charity calendars, don’t you? For charity.”

“Tony,” Hot Rogers growled, unfairly close and still not on his level, “I am _not_ doing that.”

“Fine. Iron Man’ll do it,” Tony conceded, hooking a foot around his ankle and trying to pull him closer. “I’m hot. I’m suffocating. Help me.”

“This is definitely helping,” Hot Rogers said dryly, indulging him for three glorious seconds before breaking free without a hint of effort. “No, Tony. C’mon. Let’s—”

Tony interjected meaningfully, “I’m _hot_.” Prying at his shirt in a vain attempt to get it over his head, he whined, “I’m going to die.”

“No,” Steve Rogers sighed, tugging him gently upright, letting Tony even plant his forehead against his shoulder. Angel Rogers. “You’re not. Hey,” he added, rubbing Tony’s back. “You okay?” 

Shivering, Tony said, “No. I’m hot.” He went limp, adding in a more muffled tone against Angel Rogers’ shoulder, “You’re a good pillow, you could make a livin’ off this.”

“Really,” Steve Rogers said, scratching the back of his neck lightly, briefly, before gently pulling him away. “Hey. Hey. Focus. Look, you can change, all right? Maybe a different shirt’ll—” He sighed as Tony flung his shirt across the room gleefully, adding, “Tony, just for _one_ moment, could you—”

“ _No_ ,” Tony retorted cheerfully, nearly face-planting in his urgency to hop off the bed, working on his belt. “God, I am _roasting¸_ how are you not—”

“N-O,” Demon Rogers said, catching his hands and holding onto them. “You are _not_ , under absolutely _any_ circumstances, getting ass-naked and running off, Tony. Not doing it.”

Pouting, Tony said, “It’s a great ass. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“I will not die without it,” Demon Rogers drawled.

“That’s why you say _now_ ,” Tony scoffed, waiting for his moment to strike, for Steve Rogers to let go. “Well?”

Squinting dubiously at him, Demon Rogers said, “No, you know what? We’re staying. I don’t trust you.”

Whining, Tony said, “So you _did_ kidnap me.”

“No, this is _for your own good_ ,” Demon Rogers said, exactly like a demon would. “I am _trying_ to _preserve_ your— _TONY_.”

Halfway out of his jeans, Tony preened, “Can’t stop me now, that’s a sexual harassment lawsuit _waiting_ to happen! _Hah!_ ” Taking a step forward, flailing as he tripped and grabbed Steve for support, he added, “This is a lawsuit, I’m suing you.”

Grumbling inaudibly to himself, Lawsuit Rogers picked him up under the arms, set him back down on the edge of the bed, and said, very sternly, “Tony, stop it.”

Tony said, “If _you_ —”

“No.”

Pouting, Tony said, “Well, that’s just bad sportsmanship.” Leaning forward to free his shoed feet from the jeans, he added to the terribly carpeted hotel floor, “You know, the designs here are usually pretty, these ones are just awful. Who uses brown and orange carpeting? It’s like a bowling alley.” He freed both jeans _and_ a shoe, leaving his other shoe on and saying nobly, “There, see? I can compromise.”

“Wow,” Captain America said, not in uniform but looking utterly impressed, really, with his line of logic. “You know, I wasn’t sold, but now I’m—” He caught the shoe Tony chucked at him, frowning and saying, “What?”

“Just wanted to see what you’d do,” Tony admitted, sitting on the edge of the bed and kicking his feet. “Where’s the pool?” Looking around, he added, “I didn’t bring a suit. I like skinny dipping.”

“No,” Lifeguard Rogers grunted. “No pool. None. Nada.”

“Fine. I’ll flood the bathroom,” Tony said, a completely reasonable alternative, he thought, hopping to his feet and walking instantly into the brick wall that was Lawsuit Rogers. “Hey, I’m walking here.”

“Tough,” Lifeguard Rogers grunted. “Sit. Now.”

“Well, that’s just uncompromising of you,” Tony said. “Pool or bathroom, which is it? I’m _hot_. I can’t shed my _skin_.” Tucking his thumbs into his boxer-briefs, he added, “I _can_ ante up—”

“No,” Lawsuit Rogers grunted. “N-O.”

“I can spell,” Tony said. “All I’m askin’ for is a little bit of R-E-S-P-E-C-T.”

Spelling Bee Rogers frowned at him, puzzling _that_ one out and refusing to budge until Tony said, “Fine. Give me your shirt.”

Darkly, Illiterate Rogers said, “No. This is my shirt.”

“Oh, _now_ you can’t help me get dressed?” Tony said. “Rude. I’m stuck here. Help a guy out.”

“I will get _your_ shirt,” Unhelpful Rogers stated. “That’s it.”

“I don’t want _my_ shirt,” Tony said, very plainly. “I want your shirt. It’s roomier. I’m hot.”

Steaming, Cynical Rogers said, “You’re going to do something to it. I just know it.”

“I would never,” Tony swore, wondering if he could find a paper shredder at this time of night, and if it would shred cotton t-shirts.

Making a very dubious noise, Cynical Rogers said, “Fine.” Stripping off his shirt in one clean movement, he offered it and added sternly, “Here.”

Taking it, Tony put it on. “Look, see? Model citizen.”

“Model citizen,” Law Enforcement Rogers drawled. “Yes. That’s exactly what I thought.”

“Could still take my dick out,” Tony reminded. 

“Oh my God,” grumbled Eunuch Rogers, stalking past him. “Put some goddamned pants on or so help me God, I will tie you to the bed.”

“Careful—I might like that,” Tony said, picking up his discarded jeans and winding them up, snapping them at Eunuch Rogers’ heels loudly. “I scream, you scream, we all scream for _ice cream_.”

“Twelve hours,” Eunuch Rogers grumbled to himself, stalking around the opposite side of the room, fishing through his bag for his keys or wallet or extra pair of sunglasses. Tony did not wag in excitement, but he definitely scrambled for the door, even though Eunuch Rogers barked after him, “Hey. _Who’s_ buying the ice cream? Huh?”

Slinking back a pace, pivoting on his one shoed foot, Tony looked him up and down once and cocked his head. “Sugar daddy?” he tried.

It was awfully gratifying how bright red Steve Rogers turned, stuffing another shirt—tragic, really—over his head and saying gruffly, “No. Stop it. Just stop talking. Can you do that? For five minutes?” He grabbed another pair of sunglasses for good measure, still red.

“No,” Tony said seriously, slipping off his other shoe and ducking out of the room in an instant. He pouted when, four glorious strides later, he found himself pinned to a very firm body. “Okay, but, if you don’t count to _ten_ , is it really hide-and-seek?”

“We’re not playing hide-and-seek,” Joyless Rogers grumbled, winding a hand through the back of his shirt firmly. “Can’t believe I’m letting you ou—hey. Stop that.”

“I’m chewing my own arm off,” Tony told him, around the arm he was attempting to chew off.

“You can’t chew _my_ —Tony.” Somehow wrestling him into a one-armed hold, Bear-Trap Rogers said, “This was a mistake.”

“You were a mistake,” Tony grumbled. “ _I_ am a _gift_ to _mankind_.”

“You have _no shoes_ ,” Semantics Rogers growled.

“Give me your—” Yelping as Semantics Rogers picked him up bridal style, he added, “Is this a come-on?”

“This is a _zip-it_ ,” Semantics Rogers grunted, face flushing bright red when Tony pecked the underside of his chin.

“Whatever you say, dear.”

Sighing deeply, Semantics Rogers said, “If I carry you, will you behave?”

“Yes,” Tony lied.

“Terrific,” Steve Rogers sighed, turning around and carrying him back to their room. “Now get your shoes or I will chuck you in the pool.”

“So there _is_ a—”

“It’s a five-star hotel. What do you think?”

“Pool,” Tony said, stepping up to the door and delivering a push-kick that, tragically, did not do its job. 

No longer fazed by the simple stuff, Steve Rogers stepped up and swiped his keycard, pushing the door open for him with his hand. “Go,” he ordered. 

Tony emerged, shoes on opposite feet, and declared, “I’m an innovator.”

Killjoy Rogers crouched, said, “You’re gonna have two broken ankles, is what you are,” and ordered, “Hold onto me,” before picking up Tony’s left foot and undoing the shoe, then his right foot. He swapped them, even tied them, patient but efficient.

“Wow,” Tony said, both hands on the backs of his shoulders for balance. “This is the best room service I’ve ever had. Does it come with a blowjob?”

Tightening the straps firmly, Shoeshine Rogers straightened, put a restraining hand on his shoulder, and said sincerely, “No.”

Pouting, Tony said, “On a scale from _not tonight_ to _never ever_ —”

Sighing, Shoeshine Rogers picked him up bridal-style. “Goddamn trouble, you know that, Stark?”

“Not a _no_ , then,” Tony preened, nuzzling his shoulder like a happy otter. “Wow, it’s like our honeymoon. Except normally you’d be taking me _to_ bed, not _to_ the elevators. Smile for the camera,” he added, waving idly at the tiny security feed. “Look pretty, you’re on TV.”

“Gee whiz,” Movie-Star Rogers deadpanned. “Can’t believe I made it ta _Hollywood_.”

“Dreams come true every day,” Tony sighed, eyes closed, cheek against his shoulder.

“Say it ain’t so.”

**7:30 PM**

“Tony,” Killjoy Rogers warned. “Choose _one_.”

“Fine. I want one with all the flavors,” Tony said, arching both eyebrows at Killjoy Rogers seriously. “Did you bring me here to _deny_ me? I _will_ take my shirt off in a public space.” He reached for the edge.

Sighing, Killjoy Rogers said, “All right, _all right_. Start with one.”

Pointing to the ice cream tubs, then his open mouth, Tony responded, “All.”

“No.”

Looking dolefully down at the options, Tony said, “Harshing my _vibe_.”

“Don’t know what that is.”

Pressing his face against the window, Tony moaned and said, “Oh god, it’s so cold.”

“Tony,” Steve Rogers rebuked, “don’t do that.”

“I’ll buy it,” Tony moaned. “Oh, God, it’s wonderful. Leave me. We’re happy together.”

Prying him off the window, Steve Rogers asked him, “Strawberry? How about strawberry?”

“Love it,” Tony said, “and chocolate. Vanilla. Butter pecan. Do they have blackberry? Peanut butter. I want—”

“ _Strawberry_ ,” Steve Rogers repeated.

“Chocolate chip,” Tony read off. “Chocolate _mint_.” Licking his chops, he mused, “Coffee? I want coffee. I love coffee. Let’s get coffee.” Plastering his face against the window before Law Enforcement Rogers could pry him off again, he moaned, “Oh, God, it’s so _cold_.”

“Will you _stop it_?” Cop Rogers grunted, tucking him under an arm. “Gonna have to wipe the whole damn screen down— _no_ ,” he said, too late, as Tony spread out his arms and plastered his entire front against the window and let out a loud groan.

“Oh, God, I’ve never been this hard in my life,” he groaned. He didn’t even know if it was true, because all he could really feel was cold ecstasy, but it was a _feeling_ as much as a _feeling_. He clung to the window, whining loudly when Cop Rogers pried him off, apologizing loudly to the people behind the counter, and said, “No, please—don’t take this from me, I need it.”

“What you _need_ ,” grumbled Killjoy Rogers, giving up with a sigh as he promptly plastered himself to the window again, “fine. Fine. Hi,” he told the people behind the counter. “I’m very sorry.”

“I’m not,” Tony said, “not even a little. Fuck. This is heaven. I could _die_ here.”

Ignoring him, Killjoy Rogers said, “Would it be possible to get a scoop of every flavor? Bowls are fine.”

The kid behind the counter said, “This is gonna sound crazy, but—are you Captain America?”

Captain America sighed. “Only on weekdays.”

“Wow,” the kid said. “Oh. Sure. Uh. Thank you for your service.”

“You really don’t have to say that,” assured Captain America. “It’s okay, son.”

“Sure thing, Captain America,” said the kid. “I’ll, uh—one of every flavor? Do you want those in separate bowls or—?”

“Son,” said Captain America, “I grant you total creative license on this one. Just take my money and please give me ice cream.”

The kid took the money and gave them five bowls improbably piled with nearly twenty flavors’ worth of ice cream. He said, “That’ll be fifteen-fifty, Captain America, sir,” and Captain America, sir, replied:

“Keep the change. Please.”

“Thanks,” the kid said, spilling it into the little tip jar.

“Aww,” Tony said, looking at their bounty in unabashed delight, “he gave you the senior citizen discount.”

Rolling his eyes audibly, Captain America said, “Eat your ice cream.”

“You’re my _hero_ ,” Tony said, and he kind of meant it. “I’m eating all of this.”

“Not a doubt in my mind,” Hero Rogers said, even though he had a spoon waiting patiently beside him.

“All of it,” Tony insisted, taking a bite of strawberry ice cream first. “Just you wait.”

“I’m waiting.”

**7:49 PM**

“Oh, God,” Tony groaned, facedown on the table. “I never wanna see ice cream again. If I see a cow, I’m gonna puke.”

“I didn’t see this coming,” Asshole Rogers said, finishing off the fifth bowl, thankfully _quickly_. Oh, God, he was gonna hurl. 

“I’m gonna hurl,” Tony warned, even though he just slumped over onto the seat in defeat. “Ice cream killed me.”

Rumpling his hair affectionately, Steve Rogers said, “Know what? I’m less sorry about this. If I’d known food was the trick—” He collected the bowls into a stack with one hand, tugging gently on Tony’s collar and urging in a lower, gentler tone, “Hey. C’mon. I’ll carry you.”

“Might actually puke on you,” Tony warned, eyes scrunched shut. “Oh, God. I scream. You scream. Ice cream.”

Huffing, Steve Rogers said, “Be right back,” because he was a noble asshole, returning the bowls to their proper cleaning place. A moment later, he asked, “Still alive down there?”

“No,” Tony groaned. “I’ve been kilt.”

“Kilt?” Steve Rogers repeated, scooping him up carefully. Tony groaned loudly, muffling it against his shirt. “That’s a new one.”

“Don’t speak to me,” Tony muffled against his shoulder. “I can’t talk to you when I’m this full. It hurts my stomach.”

“Whatever you say, chief,” Steve Rogers said, falling mercifully silent.

**8:52 PM**

Lurching upright with a yell, Tony flailed wildly for several seconds before realizing he was not, in fact, being smothered by a pile of Tribbles. 

Trying to make sense of where he was, Tony frowned at the bed underneath him. “Oh,” he mumbled, realizing he was shoeless but still clothed and entangled in covers. “Well, this is just inconvenient,” he said, getting up and prying his shirt off. He padded over to the door, swaying a touch drunkenly.

A short whistle drew his attention to a chair in the opposite corner, where one Steve Rogers sat reading a book. “Hello,” Steve Rogers said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Blinking at him like he was an idiot—which he was, for not understanding clear context clues—Tony replied, “The _pool_?”

Sighing, Steve Rogers closed the book and began, “Tony.”

Rolling his eyes, Tony said, “I’m _hot_.” And he was. He had been nearly killed by Tribbles, how could Clueless Rogers not understand his desire to cool off?

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Clueless Rogers said.

“Well, I don’t think you’re a good idea,” Tony responded, mentally patting himself on the back for a witty and well-thought-out comeback.

“I can turn the thermostat down,” Killjoy Rogers offered. “I don’t think the pool is a good idea,” he insisted.

“I do,” Tony said, turning towards the door, pouting when he found himself thwarted by a wall of Law Enforcement Rogers. “Look, it’s _my_ pool,” he said.

“No, it’s the hotel’s pool,” corrected Semantics Rogers, “and this is _my_ room, which means it’s _my_ pool.”

Frowning in undisguised frustration, Tony said, “Well, that just doesn’t seem right.” He put out a hand, pressing against Steve’s chest. It didn’t budge an inch. “Huh,” he said. “I could take you.”

“Out?” Steve Rogers said dryly.

“To dinner,” Tony corrected, pushing harder, planting his heels and bringing his other hand into the equation. Giving up on the forward approach, he set his bare elbow against Steve Rogers’ chest and pushed, insisting, “Let me out.”

“No.”

“Let me _out_ ,” Tony grumbled, leaning his full weight against him. “God, what are you, _twelve_?”

“Hm?”

“I am the _immovable man_ ,” Tony mimicked, planting his feet again and pushing with his elbow, getting exactly nowhere. “Try and take _me_ down. I can take you with one _pinky_. Limp—noodle—man,” he wheezed, sinking downward and wrapping his arms around Steve Rogers’ waist, clinging to him. “Romeo,” he entreated, “Romeo. Help me.”

Looking down at him, both eyebrows arched slightly in amusement, Romeo Rogers said, “You done?”

“My _love_ ,” professed Tony loudly, making Romeo Rogers wince, “for _you_ cannot be _contained_ —”

“Tony,” Traitor Rogers chided in a murmur, crouching and shushing, “ _easy_ on the volume. We’re indoors.”

“I will _not_ ,” bawled Tony, throwing his soul into it, “be _silenced_ —”

Sighing heartily, Traitor Rogers said, “Yeah, I know, I know,” and hugged him, which surprised him so much it _did_ silence him.

Making a small noise, Tony leaned into him and his oven warmth, melting. “Romeo,” he mumbled. “I wanna go for a swim, Romeo.”

“Well,” Romeo Rogers allowed, “maybe in . . . twenty minutes.”

“I could be _dead_ in twenty minutes,” Tony moaned, grinding his forehead against Romeo Rogers’ shoulder. “I could be _old_ in twenty minutes. Will you even _love me_ in twenty minutes?”

Quietly, Romeo Rogers said, “I’ll always love you.” Clearing his throat, he added, “C’mon. Let’s get on the bed, at least. Can’t imagine this is good on your knees.”

“My knees,” yawned Tony, “are twice the knees your knees will ever be.” He blinked rapidly as he was picked up, set down, adding, “I am a gift.”

“Yes,” Steve Rogers said.

“I _am_ ,” insisted Tony, looking up at him, aware that he was shirtless and overheating and disheveled as hell and not-all-there but needing to say it. “I am a _gift_.” Sniffing, he reached up to rub the dry underside of his eye and add, “I don’t need you to say it. I know it.”

“Oh, Tony,” Steve Rogers said.

Mouth twisting down, Tony said, “I, um. I need you to say it. Just a little bit.” Annoyed at himself for saying the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, sharply stung by an emotion that wasn’t rampaging _want_ , want for more-more-yes-good-let’s-go, he shimmied back under the messy, protective nest of blankets and said quickly, “I’ll just be here.” Inspired, he dragged the blankets over and flopped into the well between the bed and the wall, grunting as he hit the floor. “Here, actually. Don’t knock. Nobody’s home.”

“Tony.”

“Don’t wanna talk,” Tony croaked, gripping the blankets tightly, suddenly very, very sure he did not want to talk. “No thank you. Please go away.” Burying himself under his improvised nest, he shivered, flexing his cold feet and curling in on himself, the floor unforgivingly hard. He felt painfully close to tears, terrified if he opened his mouth he wouldn’t be able to hide them.

“I’m sorry,” Steve Rogers said, altogether too close, Tony thought, must’ve been sitting on, or maybe lying down on, the bed, _his_ bed, _my bed, mine, get off, go away, leave me, leave me alone, don’t_ , and he flinched and shivered when a heavy hand landed gently on his blanket-covered back. “Hey. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Oh, hell. Curling up into the tightest ball he could, convinced he could crush his emotions into diamond if he held onto them tightly enough, Tony said nothing, nothing at all, just shivered under his hand. His palm was hot, stroking softly against his skin through the ratty hotel blanket. He sniffled, stuffing the ratty hotel blanket closer to his face to muffle the noise, hoping he would suffocate rather than embarrass himself.

 _Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry_.

It was its own mantra, driven home with every absentminded brush of Steve Rogers’ thumb against his shoulder as he shook.

 _Don’t cry_.

He didn’t. 

He may have sobbed. He crushed it very, very tightly to his mouth, to his chest, and nobody heard it, and maybe it didn’t count.

Maybe it counted a little, he thought, as he shook harder in fear and dread and hope as warm arms slid around him, hauled him, blanket and all, onto the bed, like he was nothing more than an errant pillow tossed aside. And just like an errant pillow, Steve Rogers tugged him close to his chest, hugged him like he loved him, an arm tight around his chest, one leg folded over both of his own, and like a music box slowly winding down, Tony let himself relax, sink into it properly.

It was very warm, but he didn’t feel so hot anymore—no, he felt _cold_ , hugging Steve Rogers’ arm to his chest and croaking, “I’m not crying; I’m just allergic to hotels.”

Steve Rogers said nothing, just brushed his thumb over his collarbone once, brief and there, a reminder. He swallowed, and it clicked, and he didn’t know what to do, how to handle himself, how to _be_. “I wanna go home,” he said.

Steve Rogers replied, “First thing.” Tony relaxed, boneless. Nothing left to him. _First thing_. Good. Good. That was what he wanted. Agreement. Endorsement.

He sank deeper, not into sleep but into something soft and like it, listening to Steve breathe at his back, warm and heavy and around him, promising without words, _I’m here_.

**11:15 PM**

Steve Rogers was asleep.

It was surprising to be aware of it, to know in an absentminded _it’s-raining_ way that Steve Rogers was no longer with him. Steve Rogers wasn’t _gone_ , any more than it was raining, but he wasn’t _there_ , and that made something tighten in Tony’s chest.

Tony shouldn’t even be _here_ ; he should be out in the world, exploring, doing. Should take a car and drive, find a city and become anonymous. Get some ice cream. Or maybe a cup of coffee. He could use a pick-me-up. He felt very small inside, like somebody had scooped out all his light and left a darkness behind. 

He hugged Steve Rogers’ arm tighter, feeling like he needed it to keep from sinking any further under. There was a soft noise, and then the slightest shift, and then the arm around him squeezed gently. Hugging him back. He wanted to believe it. He needed to.

Into the darkness, he pleaded, “Steve?”

“Hm?” came the reply, sleep-warm but ready, there, after all.

“Oh,” Tony said, turning over—with no small amount of effort, until Steve Rogers cottoned on and lifted up a little, let him move more easily, _let him_ move more easily, how simple it would have been to escape but he only turned over—and shuffling closer, pressing up against his chest. “Hi,” he mumbled.

“Hi,” Steve Rogers said, one arm framing his back, one leg folding over both of Tony’s. “Y’okay?”

Tony made a noncommittal noise, rubbing his forehead against Steve Rogers’ chest. “I could be,” he mumbled. “How’re you?”

Steve Rogers scratched the back of his neck lightly. “I’m all right,” he murmured, and he sounded it, too. “Need something? Water?”

He went to shake his head automatically, but he was thirsty, surprisingly so. Still—he was comfy, and comfy overrode basic biological functions. “Maybe,” he mumbled. “Who’s asking?”

“Well, aside from ice cream—” Oh, God, the mere name curdled Tony’s stomach, made him moan softly, even though the pain had evened out, smoothed over, “you haven’t had anything to drink, have you?”

“No,” he mumbled. “What’s it to you?”

“Let me up,” Steve Rogers murmured, which was utterly nonsensical, because it was plain as day that he was the one holding Tony down, he was the one caging him in. Tony had no hold on—

Slowly, reluctantly, Tony unwound the grip on his shirt. “Five seconds,” he informed him, mashing the words together. “One,” he yawned. “Two.” 

With a huff of amused breath, Steve Rogers shimmied out of bed. He was back in ten long, _long_ seconds, propping Tony up and letting him lean against his chest and everything, utterly uncaring that he wasn’t even wearing a shirt. “No shirt, no shoes,” Tony reminded him, taking the cup and slurping noisily for the hell of it.

“Yeah, well,” knocking his own sock-clad foot against Tony’s, Steve Rogers replied, “I didn’t choose a rebel and expect somebody who wouldn’t act out, did I?”

Pausing to hum, Tony finished off the glass and handed it back, finishing two more entire glasses and yawning hugely, face-planting in Steve Rogers’ spot and declaring sleepily, “My spot.”

“Okay,” Steve Rogers said, sounding more amused than upset. “Goodnight, Tony.”

“No, wait,” Tony said, sensing that Steve Rogers would not be able to figure out a solution if Tony stole his spot. “I changed my mind.” It was a nearly impossible effort to lift his head, and he groaned as he tried, but thankfully, Steve Rogers got the memo, gently lifting him up before lying down and letting Tony smush his face against his shoulder. “My spot,” Tony declared happily.

“Whatever you say,” Steve Rogers replied, curling an arm around his back. “Go to sleep, Tony.”

He was out before the last syllable had faded from memory.

**3:14 AM**

Pi hour, Tony thought, squinting at the digital clock, head _pounding_ , feeling flummoxed and more than a little nauseous. “God,” he groaned, pushing his way upright slowly, unsteadily.

Yawning like a lion beside him, Steve Rogers asked, “What? Hm?” Setting a heavy hand on Tony’s hip, he rubbed his thigh gently, asking, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” It came out in such a low drawl it was barely awake, more of a comforting tune in the darkness than a conscious inquiry.

Tony sucked in a breath, and Steve said, more consciously, “Tony?”

“Don’t feel good,” Tony croaked, curling an arm around his stomach. “Do not feel good.”

“Hey,” Steve assured softly, sitting up beside him, letting him lean in. “S’okay.” Stifling another yawn partway through, he added, “I’m here.” Like it would help—and somehow, improbably, it _did_. The fact that he wasn’t along with his misery, hungover out of his mind and facing the prospect of terrible discomfort alone, was beyond comforting. 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Steve said, far too consciously to be accidental, slipping an arm around him to rub his back in long, even strokes. “S’gonna be okay.” He kept at it for a while, silently rubbing his back, letting him lean, until Tony finally whimpered and shuffled out of bed, stumbling over to the attached bathroom.

He didn’t vomit at once, breathing fast and short, nausea a painfully near beast at his shoulder, crowding like a stone skipping over a pond. And then there was a different, far more comforting presence at his shoulder, as Steve sat and said, “Oh, Tony,” and resumed rubbing his back, letting him lean as Tony trembled and waited between fits of gagging and shivering for the feeling of unwellness to pass. “It’s okay. It’ll be all right.”

It went on, and on, and on, and on, no more than an hour but what felt like an entire year of abject misery, until finally Tony croaked, “I wanna lie down,” and Steve helped him shuffle upright, bare chest sheened in cold sweat. Steve let him pause to wash out his mouth, even brushed him down, brief and efficient, with one of the spare hotel towels, a modicum of extra comfort. 

In the main room, Steve encouraged, “Hold on a second,” and Tony rocked on his feet and waited till he turned up with a t-shirt, getting it on him and saying, “That better or worse?”

It was warm like Steve, soft, too, well-worn, and Tony brought it to his nose and declared softly, “Not worse.” 

_Better_ was too much, too real, his nerves worn down to the bone, nothing left of them but the truth, and he couldn’t say it, couldn’t say the truth, not when he had said so much truth, and so little, and just wanted to lie down and _sleep_.

He didn’t even know if there were conscious steps between it, between standing in the shirt judging its worth and being tucked into bed, held more carefully because being too close was too much, made him feel sick, in a way, on edge. Loosely, Steve brushed a hand over his back, promising, “I’m here, Tony,” and he meant it, and Tony swallowed and said, _You always are,_ and wanted to know why he was worth so much trouble.

**. o .**

In an eventualities-and-after sort of sway, it would be easy to say, _Because Fury paid him,_ but Fury never gave him the thousand-dollar bet, because Steve Rogers never took it—refused, in fact, to take a dime of it.

 _I was happy to do it_ , Steve would insist, and he would even seem to mean it. 

Tony couldn’t understand, holding an ice pack tenderly to his sore forehead the next day, how Steve could be so kind to him when Tony himself had been nothing but a bastard in return, if his fleeting and far-between memories were anything to go by. Sure, the aftermath had been sweet, fueled by far too many feelings to quantify, let alone describe, but he’d been nothing but a terror before, and—

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Steve promised, and he seemed to mean that, too, looking at him with such searing steadiness that it left Tony faltering to say, _Well, good. Good. Let’s never do it again_.

But he’d gladly inject himself with all the truth serum in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s vaults for a chance to be held in Steve’s arms for another night, even if the hangover _was_ wicked. Steve was nice to him the whole day—assuming, perhaps rightly, that Tony was still slightly out-of-touch as he stared blankly at his phone for a full ten minutes before pocketing it without doing anything. He made him breakfast and sat with him on the flight home and generally stayed by his side, long after he was a flight-risk and a societal hazard at large.

Their brief visit to check in on some helicarrier construction work hadn’t exactly gone according to plan—a leisurely detour to test the veracity of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most potent truth serum had proven far more psychedelic than Tony had thought it would, which he later learned was a sort of allergic reaction, a type of momentary anxious-depressive insanity that was terribly unhelpful for interrogations, surprise-surprise—but at least it _had_ been informational.

For starters, Tony learned that Steve Rogers was a very good cuddler.

And he learned that he needed to find somehow, some _way_ to be lovingly embraced by him again, even if it _did_ mean surrendering a touch of his sanity.

“Never again,” he vowed aloud for Steve’s benefit on the plane home, still holding an icepack to his forehead, wincing with real discomfort.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Steve said, real disappointment in his tone as he offered Tony a glass of water that he took. “Would never have let it happen.”

“I’m grown,” Tony reminded. “And it’s not exactly _new_ technology. Besides—now I know.” Smiling, he took a long swallow and mused, “It’s almost comforting, actually.”

“Really,” Steve drawled, sitting down across from him and frowning skeptically. “How so?”

“Well,” Tony said, before taking another long sip, “should S.H.I.E.L.D. ever want to pry any secrets out of me, they’ll have to do it the really, _really_ hard way.”

Expression very somber, not quite sharing the grim humor of the moment, Steve vowed, “You get to keep those, Tony. Your secrets are your own.”

Blinking, surprised by how touched he was by the gesture, Tony disguised his reaction by taking another long sip. “And you?” he prompted. “Are you glad you’re immune to it?”

“Can’t say I’m disappointed,” Steve drawled, sharing his levity with a brief smile. “I mean, not that it didn’t look like fun, but, I doubt it’d be as graceful if Iron Man had to haul my ass outta the desert.”

Shuddering, Tony said, “Oh, God, you’d do horrible things to that poor suit,” which made Steve laugh unexpectedly, a grin of his own splashing across Tony’s face.

 _I want to make you laugh more,_ he thought. _I want to be with you more_.

He didn’t know, precisely, how he would get there, feeling oddly unsure if he would dare to say the words aloud when Steve could say, _No_ , and mean it, walk away and never come back, but he would not allow the opportunity to pass him by without _trying_.

_I want to know what it’s like to be beside you all the time._


End file.
